


If You Can't Handle the Heat

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:16:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: A poi prompt: The team has acquired Control and the ISA as allies. Some time after Samaritan's downfall and Shaw's return, Control walks into the team's base of operations to see more than she'd like of her former agent and a certain hacker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Handle the Heat

“I don’t  _care_ how much money he has, I  _will_ nail the son of a bitch,” Control declares into the phone, putting the receiver to her mouth for maximum noise. Bringing her cell back to her ear, she can hear the small man’s fretful voice.

“But, ma'am, h-”

“No negotiating,” she deadpans, rising from her desk chair and moving with swift steps towards the ISA quarter’s break room. She looks down at her nails with little interest, finding the man’s pleas rather futile.

“How  _dare_ you kill a respected politician’s son?!” He croaks out defiantly, and Control can’t help a rumble of laughter.

“I don’t kill people,” she tells him, a dark tone in her voice to match the wicked black of her eyes. “I kill terrorists.”

* * *

 

 With that, she hangs up, letting out a grunt to pop the bubble of stress welling in her stomach. Coming upon the break room, Control enters, eyes searching for a face.

“Clark,” she calls out, smile back as she stalks up to him. Hearing his name, and the voice that uttered it, he excuses himself from a conversation, bringing his full attention to Control. His eyes look to her expectantly, and he takes a tentative sip from his coffee. “If I give you a phone number, will you track it down?”

“Sure thing, ma'am,” he replies earnestly, vigorously nodding his head. “May I ask what for?”

“I got a call today pertaining to our latest suspect,” she replies blandly, jotting the digits down on a spare napkin on the counter. “I want to know how he got the information, and why he has it.” With that, she hands him the scrap, and he scurries off to his desk. Control watches him leave, first through the open door, then the long wall of windows leading out to the multitudes of cubicles surrounding a large, inner ring. There, her eyes travel across a large screen, dim lights of the building allowing it to emit a bright glow in comparison. On it, Control watches people walking, faces held in boxes of varying colors; the camera angles and locations changing every few seconds. Always monitoring. Always watching.

“Don’t forget that you have to take your daughter to the dentist in forty minutes,” a young voice at her side says, and Control turns her head from the screen. There, she sees a woman with sandy blonde hair, freckles speckling her nose and cheeks, eyes a calming shade of green. There is an earpiece in her ear, and a tablet pinned between her arm and side. Control thinks back to her last assistant- her bleached hair cut close to her head, pantsuit always crisp and voice always stern. In a way, she was the only friend Control felt she had. But that was before.

“Okay,” Control responds at last, beginning to walk. The assistant tails close behind, long ponytail swishing from left to right against her back. “Tell Julianne to cover my desk. If someone on the phone says they can only speak to me, then tell her to hang up. Got it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the secretary responds, stopping her bouncy gait as Control turns on her.

“And if anything urgent pops up, let me know.” Before there is time for response, Control is gone, stalking down the dark corridor and coming to the door. Smoothing down her blazer, she puts on a maintained front before pushing it open, stepping out into a well-lit government building. The polished columns and white marble floors contrast drastically with her work space, and her heels smack obnoxiously on the ground, reverberating through every crevasse of the the high ceilings.

She stalks into the parking lot, slips into her car, and revs the engine. Once it comes to life, she turns the nob on the radio volume, allowing the muffled voices to escape their small confinement, sounds pouring free from each speaker. She can’t help but laugh at recognizing the Pink Floyd song playing, its electric tones and guitar cords wrapping themselves around her.

 _Welcome to the Machine,_  Control thinks to herself with a chortle, pulling into drive and starting down the road.  _More like welcome back._

_______\ If Your Number’s Up /_______

All Control had ever wanted to do was protect her country and her family. How she did it and who payed the price never mattered to her. Then, she was kidnapped. A shudder snakes its way down her spine as she remembers the feeling of a taser on her skin and the look of murder in Root Groves’s eyes. She looked rabid, like a starving lioness with her eyes set on juicy prey. She had her claws extended and wanted nothing more than to sink her fangs into Control’s skin- to watch her bleed.

 _I don’t blame her_ , Control thinks to herself. _After what I did to her_. However, what took Control by surprise was the fact that it had nearly nothing to do with that encounter, and everything to do with Sameen Shaw. The name was so natural, so free flowing on Control’s tongue; it was like she’d said it a hundred times over. It was because she had. Once her boss, and then her enemy, she was informed in quite an uncivil way of Shaw’s abduction, and the events in the basement of the stock exchange. And at that moment, with Harold Finch’s eyes boring into her- instilling a fear in her even a loaded gun to her head couldn’t muster- she began to see things as more than black and white. There was a gray in between as the two collided, creating a heavy fog of confusion between right and wrong.

She’d been lied to for years, killing and killing for the sake of an Artificial Intelligence that had a sickening second agenda. And she’d unknowingly signed her name in its little black book. Going to the stock exchange herself, feeling the fresh paint as it came away on her fingers, hearing about the Correction- it all brought her world to a halt. How could she protect anyone- her daughter included- if she was the one destroying them?

It got her locked up. It got her killed- almost. John Greer’s words still ring in her head, like the last faint traces of a nightmarish song she is unable to shake.  _‘In Samaritan’s view, there is no room for outliers. Which means there is no room for you.’_  Miraculously, though, two men named John Reese and Harold Finch managed to find her, bringing her back from an execution sentence. It was her chance at redemption, and she took it like a starving man takes a hot meal. A war ensued. Not any war you’ve ever known. This was a war of toy soldiers pretending to be America’s Next Top Martyr, fighting for a cause they had no concept of. They were merely killer play things.  _And I was almost one of them_.

None the less, all storms pass, and this was no different. When the dust and computer parts settled, the scraggly team of five- six, if you count the dog- that picked Control up were standing, beaten and battered and defiant.  _Shouldn’t be surprised_ , Control chuckles to herself. _They didn’t make it as far as they did for being another statistic._

Sameen Shaw was returned, and- with the downfall of Samaritan- Finch’s Machine was reinstated as the ISA’s go-to for the take down of terrorists and criminals in the United States. Since then, many feeble relations had been slowly rekindled. Slowest of those were of Root Groves and Sameen Shaw. However, both were starting to just barely warm up to the new, small army on their side.

Control checks the time. 11:41 a.m. With a sigh, she reaches to the passenger seat for her purse, needing to take her blood pressure medication. However, her hand merely swipes air, and she takes a swift glance down. To her distaste, the space is empty.  _Where the Hell did I put that thing_ , Control fumes to herself, wracking her brain as she turns down the nearest street. Her mind wanders to the pit-stop visit she made to a deceivingly abandoned subway station for coffee with her new associates. As much as the women of the team were still distrusting of her, she found friends- or as close to friends as she could accept- in the group.

In her mind’s eye, she can see her placing her purse down on Harold’s desk. Then, overstaying her visit, rushed from the station to keep from being late, leaving the bag behind. With screeching wheels, she makes a tight U-turn, being honked at by the man behind her, and heads back to the heart of Manhattan. She’d offered them a space of their own- a private unit for them to operate- but all unanimously declined.

Pulling up to the curb, Control quickly kills the engine, stepping out of her SUV and starting towards the station’s entrance. Her steps leave an eerie echo in the cobweb-ridden pathway, dust kicking up with each step. She squints her eyes to see in the near-blackness, bumping her knee clumsily a few times on out of use equipment. Finally, after what seems like years, Control comes to the yellow-lit subway terminal. Hearing voices wafting her way, her eyes search for their sources. Finding them, her eyes widen.

__________\ We’ll Find You /__________

“What are you doing?” Root asks, silently wandering over to where Shaw is hunched over Harold’s desk.

“Looking through Control’s purse,” Shaw responds, not even looking up. Her hands sift through pockets, eyes devouring each object in sight. She begins pulling things that hold some interest out, setting them down on the desk before scavenging for more.

“Why?” Root questions, coming to lean on the wood just in front of Shaw, staring down at her with affectionate eyes.

“Why not?” Shaw responds. “She left it here. Fair game.” Root nods her head in agreement, giving Shaw that one, before peering down at the contents herself.

“What’s this?” She wonders allowed, bringing her hand to the purse’s side pocket. She pulls out a small booklet that almost passes as a wallet. Intrigued, she leans her back against the desk, looking at it curiously. Upon flipping it open, she sees pictures of an infant. The more Root flips, the more she watches it grow to a toddler, then a child. The last is a photo of Control with the girl, both sharing a similar facial structure and identical smile.

“Root, check this out,” Shaw says, and Root places the booklet back in its place, peering up. Shaw wields what looks like a pen in her hand. “I used to have one of these.”

“I used to have a pen, too, Shaw,” Root cracks, and Shaw rolls her eyes.

“Just watch.” Shaw clicks the push button of the pen, and a paper thin blade slides down, snapping into place at about four inches. Then, with the speed of light, Shaw snatches up the ChapStick container from Control’s belongings. The next thing Root sees is half of it dropping to the table, the other half still held between two of Shaw’s fingers. A smile spreads on Root’s face, eyes widening like a child who’s just witnessed a magic trick. Clicking it back, Shaw places it in her pocket before dumping the other items back into the bag.

Root follows as Shaw heads into the subway cart, opening a cabinet drawer and pulling out a personal-sized bag of Cheez-Its. Plopping down on the nearest chair, Shaw begins munching away aimlessly.

“You bored?” She asks Root, who sits down at Shaw’s side, leaning her head in her hand over the back of her chair. She looks into Root’s chocolate eyes, trying not to get lost.

“With  _you_?” Root responds playfully. “Never.” Shaw swallows a mouthful of crackers before responding.

“Well, no offense to you, but I’m bored out of my mind. John and Lionel are out on a case, Finch is at work, and the last three numbers have gone straight to the ISA.” Shaw sits, brewing a moment with narrowed eyes. “What are we?” She asks rhetorically at last, throwing a hand up into the air. “Chopped  _liver_?” Root can’t help but chuckle, drunk off of Shaw’s frustration. A dopey smile sits crooked on her face as she watches Shaw. She can see the annoyance in Shaw’s eyes, the need to do something other than sit burning on her skin. Without a sound, Root stands, heading to Harold’s computer.

She takes a seat in the rolling chair, hitting the space bar to awaken the sleeping giant. The lock screen reveals, in large, block numbers, the time.  **11:45 a.m**. Quickly unlocking it, she starts typing rapidly, eyes whipping back and forth across the screen as she sends in commands, reads reactions, and continues. She becomes submerged in the code, losing herself to the strings of letters and numbers, searching for anything relevant.

“Have I ever told you how hot it is when you go all computer nerd?”

Root nearly jumps out of her skin from the low voice that tickles her ear. She hadn’t heard Shaw approach, and- judging by the almost inaudible laugh Root hears- Shaw knows. As soon as the initial shock wears off, a slight blush takes over Root’s face as she tries terribly to conceal a smile; then it melts into a suggestive air.

“ _No_ ,” Root replies, trying to keep her tone cool. “But you should do it more often.” She can feel Shaw move at her side, and her heart begins to beat harder, breath coming in faster as she starts to lose control of her calmness.

Her heart breaks through her rib cage as she feels Shaw’s lips brush against her neck. “Noted,” Shaw whispers, and Root closes her eyes, willing herself to hold firm just a little longer.

“Should I get back to typing so you can gawk, or can I help you with something?” Root asks suavely, self-indulgent smirk on her lips as she achieves the tone she was going for. She still faces straight ahead, but her eyes are looking over to where Shaw is, close enough for her breath to move a few strands of Root’s hair. Root can feel the back of the chair pull against her back as Shaw’s fingers grip the top, her nails lightly grazing Root’s shirt.

“Hm,” Shaw muses aloud, contemplating. Having Shaw so close, Root can feel herself growing woozy, her scent and her warmth intoxicating Root entirely. “ _That’s_ a tough decision.” After seconds that drag by- Root’s nerves running faster by the jiffy- Shaw finally spins the chair around, hands coming to either side of Root’s head as she keeps her hands on the chair back, face deadly close to Root’s. Shaw can see every intricate detail of Root’s irises and the nervous glow they hold; a small smirk comes to Shaw’s mouth. Her gaze drops to Root’s lips, lingering there before locking eyes with Root once more.

Something’s changed in them. They are filled with anticipation now too, and a balling up of energy as her nerves rattle within. Still, Shaw stays just where she is, feeling the air electrify around her the longer she holds this out. Then, just when she thinks the room might catch fire, she leans in. The inch of space between them falls away all too easily, and before Root can even realize Shaw is moving, there are lips on hers. They’re soft, gentle like the precursor to a violent storm.

The pressure builds, Root leaning forward as her hands grip the bottom of the chair. Her knuckles go white as nerves take her hands, nails digging into the soft leather underneath. The chair rolls back, Root feeling a slight jar to her back as it hits the edge of the desk, and her lips part. Her hands leave the chair, coming to Shaw’s hips and making their way up her back. With her hands on the back of Shaw’s neck, she pulls Shaw in closer, arching her back. Her nerves are ablaze, hoarse from screaming, and streaking through her system like cheetahs in the wild. Every inch of her hums with life, Shaw’s presence bringing a buzz to her head.

Root feels a weight in her lap, and a thrill drives itself straight through her heart. Shaw keeps one leg on either side of the chair back, being as close to Root as possible, and her nails make permanent indents in the top of the leather. Her muscles are coiled up to the breaking point, and they only get wrenched tighter as she feels Root’s fingers in her hair. Her lungs burn, demanding air, and only when she can’t last a second longer does she let back slightly.

She barely draws in half a breath before Root pulls her back in, and a large grin spreads over Shaw’s face in spite of herself. Shaw kisses her again before resting her forehead on Root’s. She can hear Root’s ragged breath mingling with her own, and opens her eyes to see Root’s closed, her entire countenance filled with euphoria. Shaw’s already finicky heart jumps at the sight. Slowly, and without a sound, Shaw slides her head over, kissing Root’s cheek tenderly. There is a sharp intake of breath on Root’s end, then Shaw presses her nose to the spot, allowing her breathing to gradually come back to her, muscles relaxing as she brings her hands to a rest on Root’s shoulders. Root’s fingers toy with Shaw’s hair subconsciously, pulse still soaring at unpredictable intervals.

“You okay, Sweetie?” Root asks, voice a rush of air that carries over the silent station.

“Yeah.” Shaw shifts, moving back slightly.

“You getting up?” Shaw can’t help the pleasurable smirk that forms on her lips at hearing the deflated undertones in Root’s voice.

“I’m just getting started.”

“Are the two of you done? Or should I just leave before you both wind up taking your pants off?” Shaw sits up straight at once, old agent habits kicking into gear before her mind has time to tell her otherwise. However, as her sluggish thoughts chug up to speed, Shaw relaxes, stiff back becoming fluid again as she eyes Control over with bored eyes.

Control stands at the entrance of the station, a mixture of confusion and pure disbelief on her face. Her entire body is rigid, contrasting deeply to the relaxed- and even irritated- tone of her voice. Control’s eyes don’t stop sweeping between Root and Shaw; as if they are two pieces of a puzzle, and she can’t figure out how they fit right.

Looking to Root, Control can see the flush in her face, eyes still glowing, glassy like someone still high, with her hair slightly disheveled. There’s a sheepish smile peeking from the corner of her mouth, a warring kind of smile- half of her mortified at Control’s impromptu appearance; half flooded by the memory of thirty seconds ago. Control’s gaze shifts back to Shaw, who looks at her indifferently. Still, Control can see her breath as it is elevated, hair a complete mess with one of Root’s hands still forgetfully on her neck, and hostile undertones radiating from her skin, daring Control to say a single thing she won’t agree with.  _You’re not my boss anymore_ , it says.  _Don’t think I won’t kick your ass._

“Why are you  _here_?” Shaw says at last, breaking the silence as she stands, leaning casually against the desk just behind Root. Her voice isn’t truly harsh, just tired and irritated.

“Finch says no drinking, eating, or  _sleeping_ on his desk.” A quirk of a smile surfaces on Control’s face, and she can see the slightest, ice-breaking crack of a grin on Root’s features, but it does little to humor Shaw. “Forgot my purse here earlier,” Control tells her, falling serious once more. “Mind handing it to me?” Shaw, after a moment’s deliberation, moves with feline grace over to Control, bag in tow. “ _And_ my pen?” She adds, eyeing Shaw over. Shaw holds it without so much as an acknowledging flicker.

“What pen?”

“The one you took from my bag.” They stare at each other, waiting for someone to cave- neither does.

“You owe me one. You know, for killing me,” Shaw tells her blandly at last, and Control lifts her chin, an uncomfortable twinge creeping into her limbs. Everything in her nature tells her to fight back, demand what is hers- be the authority figure she’s always been. With this being said, she knows to regain even an ounce of trust from her ex-employee, there will have to be an equal playing field.

“Fair enough,” Control responds, forcing the words out. A cocky flame sparks to life in Shaw’s eyes, lip twitching with a satisfied smirk. Control sighs.

“Well, I gotta run,” she says, patting her hands down on her legs. She gives them both a short nod in salutation before turning to leave. Then, almost out, she turns, bringing one finger up in remembrance. “Oh,” she starts. “And- if you’re  _ever_ planning on this sort of thing again- a heads up? I’ll skip the drop by.”

“ _You’re_ the one who came back from work early,” Shaw counters, and Control can’t help but to narrow her eyes. Wheeling back around, Control takes towards the exit, quickening her pace to make up for lost time.

_‘The thing about Shaw is, she does care.’_

The words echo in her head from the time Root had her tied down to a chair, and she can’t help but to shake her head, humored smile finally emerging.  _Well, you sure as Hell weren’t kidding._


End file.
